


after the circle of us

by SomeTorist



Series: Ache in My Head, Hole in My Heart [2]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Gen, REALLY DARK for me good GOD, see End Notes for applicable warnings (contain spoilers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeTorist/pseuds/SomeTorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When "a couple of master assassins" becomes just one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after the circle of us

**Author's Note:**

> I tried writing some happy, fluffy stuff and this ended up sidelining me instead. My subconscious really needed to get it out of my system, apparently!
> 
> I claim no knowledge of the Russian language, so any attempts at Russian were done primarily using a combination of Google Translate and WordReference.com.
> 
> For applicable Archive Warnings, see the End Notes, but know that they contain spoilers.

The sun is hot in Uganda, but it's nothing Natasha Romanoff can't handle. She lets her right leg dangle over the edge of the lean-to's roof, her eyes skimming the horizon for any unwanted silhouettes and one anticipated figure.

 _"Agent Romanoff, I need you to come in."_ There's an odd crackling on the other end of the line, but Natasha knows if that was relevant, the Director would have told her immediately.

"Roger, sir. Currently awaiting Agent Barton's arrival at the rendezvous point; ETA unknown–"

 _"Agent Romanoff, I need you to come in_ now _."_ There's something in the Director's voice that brooks no argument, and normally Natasha wouldn't question a direct order, but this is Clint and this is her and this is Nick Fury. They've worked together for years, decades, a version of forever, and this is one of the few things she doesn't stomach easily.

"Clarification, sir: I move now, without Agent Barton?" she says quietly into the comm.

 _"Affirmative, Agent Romanoff. Move_ now _."_

"Command acknowledged. ETA thirteen minutes."

\-------

She rolls into base a quiet storm, anxiety and anger sparking off her skin in turns. After working with Nick Fury for two decades, she knows that he wouldn't order desertion unless absolutely necessary. But with Hawkeye and the Black Widow, the concept of desertion has never been relevant. There's never been a need– and Natasha has a difficult time believing that desertion was needed now.

"Director Fury's tent," she snaps at a passing agent, who spins, blubbers, and points southwest.

It wouldn't do to jog, but Natasha forces herself to maintain only a brisk pace as she nears a nondescript tent near the temporary base's perimeter. The two guards stationed at the entrance follow her with their eyes but don’t stop her. No one ever stops Natasha Romanoff.

“Director,” she says, just as Fury’s “Agent Romanoff” begins. For a moment, the Director doesn’t turn to face her, standing immobile in front of the map-covered table. Natasha waits, like she always does. She expects an explanation, and Fury knows she deserves one. Next, he’ll turn towards her, arms folded, and either a.) chew her out for Clint’s fumble, for which she’ll take responsibility, or b.) commend her on a job well-done before informing her that Clint beat her to the base by seventeen minutes, the bastard.

But then the Director sighs. His shoulders slump.

And Natasha blinks, slightly thrown. It’s only then that he turns to face her, hands clasped behind his back, and Natasha feels something in her stomach drop.

Fury clears his throat. “Agent Barton, codename ‘Hawkeye,’ will not be returning from the mission.”

Natasha blinks, deliberately unclenching her fists. She waits.

“He walked too close to an IED.”

She waits.

“The explosion killed him almost almost instantly.”

She waits.

“...Natasha, Clint Barton is dead.”

She blinks once.

And then she snorts.

Instantaneously realizing her error, Natasha goes stoic, clasping her hands behind her back to match the Director. “Acknowledged, sir.”

Fury stares at her, and she stares back. She knows what he’s doing, and she knows she has to trust him. Nick Fury wouldn’t put Clint on Witness Protection – and on such short notice – unless absolutely necessary. And he wouldn’t keep it a secret from her unless _absolutely_ necessary. 

“Agent Romanoff,” he begins, but she speaks over him.

“Thank you for telling me, Director,” she says, loudly enough for any enemy video or audio devices to catch the slight tremor she puts in her voice. They will expect her to crack. Nick Fury will play along, because he must know that she’d instantly see through his lie– just like she saw through the lie about Coulson’s death those many years ago. Nick Fury will play his part just as she plays hers– he might even pretend to comfort her.

But the Director doesn’t do anything. He remains standing, hands clasped behind his back, his good eye watching her every purposeful sniff, tear, finger twitch. The silence stretches, and Natasha grows uneasy. Something isn’t right. He isn’t playing his part.

“Natasha,” he says slowly, and she wonders why she didn’t register the use of her first name before, “There are no cameras in this tent. We are alone.”

He knows her well enough to trust that she understands the significance of those two sentences. Alone means no one is watching. Alone means there is no need to pretend. Alone means Director Fury has no need to lie. Alone means Director Fury isn’t lying.

Director Fury isn’t lying.

She knows his tells, of course– knew all four of them two days after meeting him. She can already see that his right ear is still level with his left, that he hasn’t wet his lips in over twenty minutes, that his left pinky isn’t twitching, and that both knees are bent at the same angle.

Director Fury isn’t lying.

“I– ” she squeezes a tear down her cheek, “–I see.” Natasha sucks in a gulp of air like she’s drowning. So Clint isn’t on official S.H.I.E.L.D. Witness Protection, then. Surprising, but not _surprising_. She knows he’ll turn up, battered, bruised, bloodied, and smirking at the fact that he finally managed to elude the government agency that he detests and craves in turns. Natasha knows Clint is alive, and she knows she has to keep his secret to keep him that way. For whatever reason.

She expects a damn good explanation when he finally turns up.

“I’m sorry, Agent Romanoff,” the Director says quietly. “I know the two of you were... close.” This time, she quells her snort. ‘Close’ is an understatement, and they both know it.

She lets the silence stretch this time, her mind already calibrating how much sorrow to show and when, how many tears to shed, how loudly to cry. No one can suspect the truth– Clint would have told her, somehow, if his situation was anything but dire. No one can suspect that he’s alive.

Finally, Director Fury clears his throat. “We normally contact a fallen agent’s family in these situations, but – well. You know.” She nods once, squeezing out another tear. She knows. It’s true that Clint hasn’t had a proper family in decades, but he’s had her. 

Still has her. Will always have her.

“We’ll give him a good service, Agent Romanoff,” Fury’s saying. “We’ll give him the service he deserves.” She nods again, letting out a soft sob, knowing that Clint will laugh at the prospect of being commemorated by rows of agents he’s antagonized for years. The bastard. “Autopsy’ll take a few days,” he continues. “Coroner says the body should be ready for viewing by Tuesday.” The Director pauses. “Unless, Agent Romanoff, you’d rather wait–”

“No,” she says softly, tear-filled eyes trained on the floor.

“Tuesday, then.” 

“Tuesday,” she repeats.

\-------

When Natasha returns to Stark Tower, the rest of the Avengers are waiting just inside the door. Thor steps forward immediately, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

“He was a brave warrior,” Thor says somberly, and Natasha doesn’t respond, because that’s what they expect. “A brave warrior defeated by the most vile of methods: cowardice. We shall remember him always.”

Silence stretches. For once, Stark seems to have nothing to say. When Natasha glances up to look at him, he flinches from her gaze and shrinks further back into the corner. She blinks, surprised at the shame that flickers through his features.

Curious, she scans the faces of the other Avengers. Thor’s hand remains on her shoulder and he doesn’t meet her eyes, too busy staring into the distance with a strange look about his mouth. Steve meets her gaze steadily and gives her a soldier’s nod. He knows what it is to lose a partner in combat. 

And when she looks at Bruce, he’s blinking tears away.

“Thank you,” Natasha says softly when her eyes are back on the floor. “I’ll need to be alone.”

No one replies, she can see a few nods in her peripheral, and she walks slowly from the hall towards the gym. For a moment, she contemplates letting the Avengers in on Clint’s secret, but of course, she can’t. Regardless, she knows they’ll discover the truth eventually, given that Tony Stark is the nosiest idiot on the planet.

\-------

So far, life without Clint is boring.

She’s accustomed to functioning without him; they’ve been separated for longer periods than this. She’s unaccustomed to _living_ without him, though, and her growing sense of distance is only worsened by the fact that he’s not here to bring her back down.

Exactly seven years ago, Natasha accepted her dependence on him – two years after he’d accepted his dependence on her. She’d grounded her identity in standing alone, without anyone’s help but her own. Slowly, Clint redefined her; even more slowly, she allowed it. Clint had been the only one to prove her wrong, to prove that people need at least one anchor to stay sane. And even so, she wasn’t always sane and he wasn’t always sane, but they were always as sane as they could be when they were together. 

Are together.

If Clint would just _show up_ already, he would tease her for spending the last thirty-nine hours alone in the gym, with nothing but the weights, the mat, and the bars to keep her company. He would crack a dry joke through a wry smile about how disgusting she smells, already perched too high to be reached for a quick revenge. So she would be left to scowl, arms crossed, and Clint would eventually swing down to the mat, where she would let him evade her punch, would let him press a kiss to her temple, because they both know she’s his favorite flavor.

She had expected to receive a coded message before leaving Uganda, had expected to slap him in person two days after that. 

It’s been four days since Uganda. The bastard is late.

Natasha can hear Director Fury’s boots clipping down the hall towards the gym. She drops from the high bar just as he opens the door.

“Director.” Arms crossed, she projects the image of a mourning partner in denial, because that’s what he expects.

“Agent Romanoff.” Fury stops just inside the doorway. From eight feet away, Natasha can see fourteen more worry lines on his face, and for the first time in recent memory, there are bags under his eyes. “I have something for you.”

She blinks, waits, says nothing.

She watches him stifle a sigh. Then there’s a _clink_ as Director Fury places something on the counter beside him. Natasha feels blood draining from her face.

“The coroner found it during autopsy,” he says. “We thought it might be connected with the IED, but it’s benign... Figured you might want it.”

She can barely hear him over the white noise screaming in her head.

And somehow the penny-sized metal disk is in her hand, her fingers instinctively smoothing over the polished surface, tracing the lightly, inelegantly scratched series of numbers. 

_19211201_

“–Agent Romanoff – did you hear me? – are you familiar with this object?”

Her fingernail stutters inside one of the _2_ ’s. She forces her head from side to side.

“No.” She swallows, thumb resting over the _0_.

She’s not lying well enough, not anymore, but the Director only nods. “See you Tuesday at the viewing,” he says quietly before turning to go.

And Natasha Romanoff is alone.

_192112011921120119211201192112011921120119211201_

The white noise builds and builds and she feels her legs give out, her tailbone slamming to the linoleum floor, head whipping forward, and _19211201_ –

To be sure, in an effort to equalize her racing pulse, she forces the hand holding the disk to bring it to eye-level. It’s the same one. Her vision narrows until the numbers are all she sees, the white noise screeching inside her.

Because she remembers carving those numbers onto this disk, always knew she’d never forget.

Exactly seven years ago, in a dingy room of a Scandinavian motel that’d been out of business for months, Natasha won her eleventh straight game of Strip Go Fish, smirking as Clint roared complaints and accusations of cheating, even as he bent to pull down his briefs. Exactly seven years ago, Clint had sat back down, naked as the day he was born, and he’d grumpily called her a bitch. Exactly seven years ago, Clint and Natasha had forsaken their card game for bruising kisses and bloodied lips and violent gasps and tangled sheets.

Exactly seven years ago, Natasha had accepted her dependence on Clint – two years after he’d accepted his dependence on her.

Seven years ago, she let him mark her, and he let her mark him. In a ramshackle Scandanavian motel, he cautiously presented her with two metal discs and a proposal– for _if the worst should happen_ , a rare hesitancy in his eyes. She paused, nodded once.

Seven years ago, in a dingy motel room with three corpses stuffed in the closet, Clint handed her a knife and she made an incision to the right of his left shoulder blade, chuckling at his sharp intakes of breath as she slid the disk under his skin. And from behind her only a few moments later, he'd scowled when she’d taken her disk without a sound.

Instinctively, Natasha’s left arm snaps up and over her left shoulder, fingers tracing the circular ridge under her skin. She tastes blood in her mouth.

Seven years ago, in one of those rare countries with a language Clint spoke but Natasha didn’t, she had scratched a code onto a small metal disk when he wasn’t looking.

The nineteenth letter of the alphabet, с. The twenty-first letter of the alphabet, у. The twelfth letter of the alphabet, к. The first letter of the alphabet, а.

 _19211201_ for _сука_ , for _bitch_ , for a small, temporary kind of revenge.

But _bitch_ for _Clint, you bastard_ , for everything they had and everything they did and everything they never would, _bitch_ for _you are mine (and I am yours)_.

 _Cука_ for _I better never see this disk again_.

 _Cука_ for _don’t you dare leave me_.

The white noise wails and wails and wails, her fingernail still stuttering over the final _1_ , her tailbone numbly sore, because the disk means _19211201_ means _сука_ means _bitch_ means _dead_.

Clint is dead.

And this, Natasha wonders dimly, tears mingling with sweat, shoulder digging into the linoleum, is how an anchorless island must feel.

\-------

Early Tuesday morning, Natasha locks her bedroom door. She hasn’t talked to the other Avengers since Director Fury’s visit, and doesn’t intend to start now. Not today.

She ignores Thor when he knocks, and she ignores Bruce when he knocks. Both give up quickly.

And then Steve knocks on her door.

“Natasha,” he says quietly through the wood. “Natasha, I’m not here to convince you to come with us. I just want to talk.”

She stares at the door from her spot on the floor, back against the wall, eyes sore, hands still shaking, twenty-six hours later.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Steve,” she manages to say without splintering.

There’s a brief silence, and Natasha hears him slump against the frame.

“That’s... fair. More than fair.” He sounds tired. “I only wanted to say that– that you don’t have to come with us. No one– no one expects you to be... No one expects you to be _anything_ right now, Natasha.”

She doesn’t respond, left hand impulsively travelling into her pocket to clutch at the metal disk.

_19211201_

“And... and I want you to know that we’re all here. _I_ am here. I–” Steve inhales like he’s choking. “–I understand what you’re going through. And you have the right to some space, but you’re not better off alone, Natasha. You’re not.”

She doesn’t respond.

_19211201_

Eventually, Steve sighs and walks away. 

From her spot on the floor, Natasha forces her jaw to unclench, swallowing the blood gushing from her tongue. She doesn’t doubt that Steve means well, knows that he’s the Avenger who best understands. But he’ll never _understand_. Clint was more than a teammate.

Bloodied fingernails dig into her palm, and she’s gasping for air, vision blurring with tears and hazed with red.

Clint was more than a teammate. He was her anchor – her other half – her far-sighted eye – her partner – her lover – her equal – her strength – her weakness –

Clint was her exception.

Alone in her bedroom, Natasha sobs once, splinters.

In two decades, he'd been the sole person she had allowed completely through. Few secrets held, few punches pulled, few holds barred, immediate and inherent trust woven into the fabric of _Them_.

And then the bastard had gone and _died_ before she did, too soon, too soon, too soon, and she’s stranded, anchorless, drifting, lost, alone.

The taste of blood in her mouth is overwhelming.

...She hears, rather than sees, her bedroom door opening.

“Get _out_ , Stark,” she growls, already standing, Jericho pistol in her hand and aimed at Tony’s head.

Tony visibly flinches, hands raised to eye-level in surrender. She watches him swallow once.

“...No,” he mutters, hoarse. “ _No_ , Romanoff, I’m not leaving until–” 

“Get _out_ , Stark. I’m not asking again.” She cocks her pistol, funneling the hurricane of rage in her gut towards her trigger finger. 

“Shoot me, then,” Tony says, exhausted. “Fucking shoot me, I don’t– go ahead, but you have to let me– I just–” He sighs. His eyes are bloodshot, and when she takes a step closer, she sees that his hands are shaking.

Natasha lowers the gun.

Tony nods jerkily, hands dropping to his side.

“You should be there,” she bites, fury sparking from her eyes.

He doesn’t meet her gaze. His toe burrows under the fringe of the rug. “Couldn’t,” he manages, strained, strangled. “Wakes just... they’re not really my scene.” Tony seems to attempt a laugh, but it’s a pathetic sound carrying layers of sorrow and anger and– guilt.

Natasha blinks, remembering his shame from her first day back at Stark Tower.

“Stark, what are you–?”

“ _You_ should be there,” he says softly, like he hadn’t heard her. Natasha bristles.

“Don’t you _fucking dare_ –”

“Woah, no, I don’t mean–” Tony fumbles, swiping his left hand quickly across his face. She lets him breathe for a few moments.

“...Look,” he finally says, some steel in his voice. “Don’t go because anyone says you should. Don’t go because you think you ‘owe it to him,’ because you don’t. He’s dead; he doesn’t give a fuck.” Tony pauses, sticks his still-shaking hands in his pockets, looks at her with ageless sorrow written across his face. “...Go because if you don’t, you could regret it for the rest of your life.”

She blinks, knowing from the tears in his eyes and the shaking of his hands that Tony’s speaking from experience. 

Then she finds herself nodding. “You’re coming with me,” Natasha warns, already slipping the Jericho pistol into its seam at her side.

“What? Why?”

She flashes a feral smile. “You’re my distraction.”

\-------

Natasha lets Tony take the wheel. Beside her, barrelling across New York City, he’s uncharacteristically grim, determined, silent. He hadn’t protested when she’d relayed the attack plan, had just nodded once and slid into the car.

With nothing else to do, Natasha turns her phone on for the first time in a week. Waiting, there’s an email from S.H.I.E.L.D.

 _Agent Barton, ‘Hawkeye,’ KIA_ , the subject line reads. She glances at Tony, staring resolutely at the red light, and opens the email.

And there, about halfway through: _The Improvised Explosive Device in question was at least ten years old. It was most likely not meant for Agent Barton, and is estimated to have been a remnant of the decades-long Ugandan conflict. According to forensics, the IED was primarily built using stolen, outdated pieces of Stark Technology._

For a moment, there’s a spike of rage on her radar; a red blip in her vision. She turns back to Tony with fury pounding in her ears, his name acrid on her tongue.

He’s stoic, foot on the pedal and eyes on the road; sorrow and shame lined across his face and leaking from his eyes. She blinks, remembering the day she’d returned from Uganda.

And slowly, Natasha turns to face forward again.

\-------

When she pushes the door open, the room is dark, windows shuttered against the afternoon sun. 

In the shadows, she can see silhouettes of empty chairs scattered across the rug. Save them, the room is empty. Save the coffin in the middle of the room.

The coffin.

Her first step over the threshold echoes like a gunshot, and she feels herself flinch.

Natasha Romanoff is stronger than this. She’s always been stronger this, always been able to stand alone, always been able to handle death– caused by her or otherwise. She’s stronger than this. 

She will be stronger than death.

So she forces one foot in front of the other, ignoring the shouts sounding outside. Stark is doing his job well, and that’s all she cares about.

She can be stronger than death, she keeps walking, she can be stronger than death. She can be strong.

Natasha closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, takes one more step, opens her eyes.

And he’s right in front of her, eyes closed, hands folded over his chest like some goddamn soldier, dressed in someone else’s goddamn suit, skin sallow, lips flat, unsmiling.

And she crumbles.

“ _Cl–_ ” she’s choking, can’t breathe, “ _Clint–_ ”

 _Who did you let dress you_ , she wants to say, _Why do you look like you’re fucking praying_ , she wants to say, _Goddammit, Clint_ , she wants to say, _You look awful_ , she wants to say, _I miss you_ , she wants to say, _I need you_ , she wants to say, _Come back_ , she wants to say, she wants to say, she wants to say.

But all she can do is repeat his name like a sob, like a broken cassette tape, like a broken promise, like an apology, like a prayer.

And he just _lies_ there, on his blue cotton bed in his box made of pine wood and he’s not reaching a gentle hand up to wipe her tears away, he’s just _lying there_. He’s never going to move again.

And suddenly Natasha is furious, white noise screaming like a siren in her head.

“FUCK YOU,” she distantly hears someone shriek, knows it’s her. “ _FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING_ BASTARD _, HOW_ DARE _YOU –_”

The same person is sobbing, and she knows it’s her.

“How _dare_ you, how _DARE_ you, how _dare_ you be so fucking _stupid_ , how _DARE_ you do this to me, HOW COULD YOU–”

There’s a wail, and she knows it’s hers.

“I fucking _trusted_ you! Trusted you like I refused to trust you for three _fucking_ years, I trusted you not to fuck up, to not fuck _me_ up, AND NOW YOU’RE FUCKING _D–_ ”

She screams, blind, far past enraged, her throat already raw, too raw, far too raw.

There’s scorching pain in her shoulder that she barely feels, and when she looks down through the squinted eyelids and the blurry vision and the hammering in her head, her fingers are drenched in blood and there’s a small metal disk in her hand.

The hammering slows.

“...fuck,” she finally whispers. “Fuck.”

Chest heaving, she instinctively runs a finger across the disk. It’s slick, so covered with red that she can barely see the faint scratches on its surface.

Scratches. Forming letters.

Her heart stutters.

She can’t stop her hands from shaking, can’t force her lungs to cooperate, and she’s frantic, frantic, using the hem of her shirt to smudge the blood off.

 _Гоча_ , the disk says, Clint says.

_Gotcha._

And it’s so fucking _him_ that she has to laugh, because she can do nothing else. So she laughs, a pathetic sound carrying layers of sorrow and anger, a sound like a sob, a broken promise, an apology, a prayer.

“Bastard,” she mutters, still chuckling, eyes blurry, fingers tracing the scratches.

If he were here, if he were _really_ here, he’d be beside her on the floor, smirking, because he always smirked when he managed to surprise her. If he were really here, he’d wait a few moments, would let her work the shock out of her blood, and then he’d turn towards her, frowning, would swipe his index finger across a bloodied hand. _“You’re really goin’ to hell without me, ‘Tasha,”_ he’d say, quiet and sad and knowing.

She laughs again, bitter, because no one will call her _‘Tasha_ now. “Fuck you,” she whispers into the shadows.

And he’d let himself smile for a split second, just long enough for her to catch it. Then he’d sober. _“You don’t need me. We both know that.”_

Natasha shuts her eyes to a new darkness. _I never_ needed _you_ , she wants to say, but can’t. It isn’t true. “Doesn’t matter,” she finally manages. Doesn’t matter that she does or doesn’t need him, doesn’t matter if she ever did or didn’t, doesn’t matter, because neither of them can change the past.

 _She_ can’t change the past.

And he’d nod once, firm. _“So stand the fuck up.”_

Natasha sighs, slumping forward instead. “Shut up,” she whispers to the rug. “You can’t say that.”

She waits for her mind to supply his next line, but all she gets is silence.

Her eyes flicker open. The room is still dark, still empty, and she’s crumpled at the base of Clint’s coffin. She forces her shaking legs to stand, and she manages to make her way to one of the nearby chairs. The shouts from outside have subsided. The only sound is Natasha’s breathing.

Then: “Damn, Romanoff, uh, okay, I don’t know if you’re aware, but your shoulder–”

“Save it, Stark,” she retorts quietly, eyes trained on the two metal discs in her right hand.

_Гоча_

_сука_

By the time Tony takes a seat beside her, the discs are well-hidden.

And again, he surprises her with his silence. She waits.

“It was my parents’,” he finally says, unnecessarily. “I was seventeen and stupid and in college, and I thought I didn’t want to go to my own parents’ fucking funeral.” 

Natasha lets out a huff of breath, an exhale to tell him that she’s surprised and still listening.

Tony smiles, self-deprecating, as always. “‘Course, I realized two hours into the service that I _did_ want to go, of _course_ I had to go. I mean, yeah, my dad was a tool, but my mom, she was. She was– God, she was something else,” he croaks.

She waits, but Tony doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

A beat. Silent, Natasha scoots her chair closer, bumps his knee with hers.

Tony doesn't reply, but he nods his head once.

And eventually, the two of them stand, the coffin before them, the door to their backs.

Natasha’s not one for sentiment, never has been. But Clint Barton is lying on his back in a pine wood box that will soon be underground, and she has to say something.

She clears her throat. “Th– thank you, Clint,” she says, distantly aware that her voice sounds too fragile, too thin. From her pocket, a disk whispers _gotcha_. “For everything.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Tony echoes weakly. And then, so quickly and quietly that she barely hears him: “And sorry. God, I’m– I’m so fucking sorry, man.” 

He sniffs.

She sniffs.

And eventually, Natasha turns on her heel and slowly walks from the room, coffin to her back, deep gash above her heart, _gotcha_ and _bitch_ jingling in her pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> Applicable Archive Warning: Major Character Death near the fic's beginning. The majority of the story focuses on the POV character dealing with the physical and emotional repercussions of this death.
> 
> Applicable Archive Warning: While the violent scenes aren't described graphically – they're implied, at most – I figured I'd include a warning about them, too. There are at least two scenes that imply a significant amount of violence. There is also lots of blood.


End file.
